False Starts
by Taure
Summary: A collection of first chapters to stories that, for whatever reason, I decided not to continue. Many of them are crossovers.
1. Unto The Breach (Harry Potter-Buffy)

**Unto the Breach**  
><em>By Taure<em>

Summary: When the Watcher's Council asked for Harry Potter's expertise, he thought it'd be a day trip. A weekend at most. He certainly didn't expect to end up in Sunnydale, surrounded by vampires, the Slayer, and zombie butlers.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the property of Joss Whedon. Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. The Dresden Files is the property of Jim Butcher. This work of derivative fiction is written for personal pleasure and is not commercial in any way. 

**Chapter One: The Society of the Crossed Wands**

It was in Harry Potter's third year at Hogwarts that the great warlock Albus Dumbledore took him on as an apprentice.

"There are three kinds of magic in the world, each one wondrous in its own right," Dumbledore had told him, sitting Harry down next to the fire in his office. Hogwarts castle was always cold. The ancient, white-haired man sat opposite him and poured tea into delicate china cups. "First, there is the magic inside of you. This magic is yours and yours alone, easily controlled… yet ultimately, this is the weakest form of magic, even for the greatest of sorcerers. Sugar?"

Harry remembered starting at the question, so mundane compared to their discussion of magic. "Oh!" he'd said, sitting up straight. Dumbledore's voice had that indescribable quality of lulling you into a trance. "No, thank you."

"No?" said Dumbledore, raising an eyebrow. "Well, here you go then." He passed Harry the cup and saucer, before spooning three large sugars into his own tea.

He continued after taking a sip. "Secondly, you have the magic in the world around us. There is magic in everything, my boy, from plants and animals to air and oceans. Naturally, this magic is more potent than your own personal power, yet it is more difficult to control. The earth exists in a balance, Harry. When we draw power from the earth, we must make sure to maintain that balance."

"Why, sir?" asked Harry. Back then his voice had only just started to break, and it had been dangerously close to a squeak when Harry dared to interrupt. "What happens if things are out of balance?"

"Why don't you tell me, Harry?" asked Dumbledore, smiling at him in a patient way. "What happens when you pump water up a hill, or separate two liquids?"

Harry thought for a moment. "I suppose the balance comes back, after while."

"Precisely," said Dumbledore, nodding. "Nature will correct any imbalance - the greater the imbalance, the more violent the correction. Might I interest you in a biscuit?"

Dumbledore indicated a plate of shortbread biscuits, which Harry waved off. He wanted to hear more. The headmaster obliged. "The third type of magic is, as you might have guessed, the most powerful. Can you guess the drawback?"

"Control?" said Harry.

"Control," confirmed Dumbledore. "The third source of magic is power lent to us by the powerful entities which reside within the Nevernever. Have you heard of the Nevernever, Harry?"

Harry fidgeted, thinking back to the spell he'd cast the week before. The spell that had called upon the spirit Antares, and thereby attracted Dumbledore's attention. "Uh, kind of?"

Dumbledore peered at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. For a moment Harry thought he was going to be told off, but suddenly, to Harry's great surprise, Dumbledore winked. "Ancient gods, fae, and much more besides," said Dumbledore, "the Nevernever is not so much a place as it is a plane, home to a multitude of worlds and demesnes." The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed and he looked at Harry seriously. "This power always comes at a cost, Harry, and these beings are not inclined to mercy or kindness."

"I understand," said Harry, mirroring Dumbledore's serious tone. "Which magic will you be teaching me?"

Dumbledore put down his tea and bit cheerfully into a biscuit. "All of it, of course!"

That had been the start of it. For the next four years Harry had met with Dumbledore every week - more than once, more often than not - and learned all about spells and rituals, potions and charms. He learned to call upon the elements, to move objects with his mind… but that was just the beginning. When Harry was sixteen, they'd delved into what Dumbledore called "the greater mysteries": the mind, the soul, and the unseen.

Harry had lived for it. He liked his school work well enough - and Dumbledore insisted that he maintain top grades - but physics and history just didn't hold the same attraction as making things float. Every night, after finishing his homework, Harry had practiced magic.

And now he was the teacher.

It wasn't snowing, but it was cold enough to. Harry's every breath out misted in front of him, each breath in filling his lungs with almost painfully cool air. The night's sky was perfectly clear, the stars were out, and beams of moonlight filtered through the tree tops into the forest clearing where the Society of the Crossed Wands had gathered.

Harry was standing next to a large fire, his fellow university students gathered in a circle around him. Each of them was wearing a thick winter coat and clutching a bottle of beer. The glass was probably so cold it burned their hands, but none of them showed any sign of discomfort.

The only sound was that of a turkey pecking the ground by Harry's feet. Silently, Harry drew a knife and took a firm hold of the turkey. It was warm and it struggled hard, but Harry didn't let it escape. He raised the knife and spoke clearly into the night:

"We offer this sacrifice to Woden, the Allfather."

The knife came down, cutting the turkey's neck in a single swipe. Hot blood spurted out, covering Harry's hands and splashing on his clothes, but he didn't flinch, holding the turkey still through its death throes.

When it was had stopped moving, Harry smeared his fingers in the turkey's blood and stood. Not saying a word, he walked up to Jeremy, a weedy guy with thick glasses, and flicked a small amount of blood in his face. Jeremy couldn't help but cringe, but it didn't matter. Harry moved on to the next person, and the next, flicking each with blood until everyone in the circle was done.

Finished, he picked up his own beer from the ground. "Ladies and gentleman!" he called, "let's eat!"

A cheer went up and the formality of ceremony broke in an instant, the circle bursting into motion as everyone went about their tasks. Jack, Helen and Sarah were heading back to the car to fetch the barbecue, while Jamie went to prepare the turkey. Harry's duty was far easier: he had to drink beer.

"Nicely done," said Annie, a pretty redhead Harry had seen in his history classes at Cambridge. She was short and too thin to say she was athletic, but she had a kind face and a twinkle in her eye. In the dark it was easy to miss the flecks of blood drying on her skin. "I don't think I would've been able to do it, you know?"

Harry shrugged. "First time's always the worst," he said, thinking back to his fourth year, when Dumbledore had first taken him out into the black forest. "Once you're over that hurdle, doing it again is easy enough."

Annie moved closer. "How many times have you done this, then?" she asked, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Harry pretended he didn't realise what she was doing.

"Let me think," he said, making a show of counting on his fingers, "this'll be... my seventh Yule. Is it your first time? I don't think I've seen you at meetings."

Annie blushed. "Oh yeah, I'm kinda new. I'm Alice's friend - you know Alice, right?"

"Sure, I know her," Harry said with a nod. He took a good glug from his bottle. Like most of the Society, Alice was all about the "alternative" lifestyle. Harry doubted that she believed magic was real. "So Alice thought midwinter was a good intro, huh?"

"I guess so!" Annie said with a laugh. "It's okay that I'm here, isn't it? Alice said it'd be cool… it's cool right?"

Harry looked Annie up and down slowly. Even though she was wearing a coat, the message was clear. "It's cool," he said casually, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She moved into him, pushing up against his side. "Come on, let's go introduce you to the others. A bit of networking never hurt anyone."

Annie laughed. "Pagan networking - that's a new one."

Harry grinned down at her. "We might be pagans, but we're still Cambridge."

They moved over to a group of three. "Hey, Potter," greeted Francisca, a PhD student from Argentina. Francisca was a veteran member: she'd been part of the Society well before Harry arrived, and would likely be a member for long after he left.

"How's it going?" asked Harry, kissing her on the cheek. "Fran, this is Annie. Annie, meet Fran. And these are Michael and Jessica." He indicated the two who'd been standing with Fran.

"A newbie, huh," said Fran, "what d'you study?"

"History," answered Annie, automatically shifting into the conversations all students have when they meet. "You?"

"English lit," said Fran, before jabbing her thumb at her friends, "we're all English, actually. 'Part from Harry. What is it you do again?"

"Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic," Harry supplied.

"That's right," said Fran, before turning back to Annie. "So what'd you think of the ceremony?"

"It was cool," said Annie lightly, looking deeply uncomfortable at being asked her opinion. Fran raised an eyebrow, and Annie hurried to modify her answer. "Well, I mean that, as a history student, it's really interesting to see these old traditions, you know? There's something about them that's just… I dunno." She looked at Harry. "Help me out here."

"The word you're looking for is _primal_," said Harry, his voice shifting deeper, into what others called his 'teaching voice'. "We're here dressed in jeans, drinking Mexican beer instead of real ale, but some part of what we're doing still has power. Some kernel of this ceremony is the same as what people did a thousand years ago."

"That's it, exactly," said Annie. "It really brings it to life, doesn't it? History isn't just a story, _it actually happened_." She paused. "Okay, that sounded stupid. Obviously history happened, it's just…"

"We get you," said Fran, nodding along. "It's something meaningful. Thank god you came along, Harry."

Annie frowned. "What do you mean?"

Harry coughed uncomfortably, but Fran ignored him. "Couple years back, before Harry started, things 'round here were pretty different. Everything was run by these three guys, and let me tell you, they were mixed up in some seriously bad shit. Like, Satanism bad. It was all 'bout blood and sex and power for them, ain't that right Jess?"

"Urgh," said Jessica, her lip turning at the memory. "That creep Azazel - and I still refuse to believe that was his real name - he kept asking me to do weird sex rituals with him."

"Holy shit," said Annie, wide eyed, "they sound completely nuts."

"They were," said Fran, taking a swig of her beer, "but then one day, just over a year ago, Harry turns up, a fresher if you'll believe, and he just… well, I dunno, exactly. What was it you did?"

"I spoke with them. Firmly," Harry said, trying to remain vague. They didn't need to know about his connections to the Watcher's Council. He doubted they'd even heard of it.

"Uh huh," said Fran, doubt dripping from her voice. "Well, whatever he said, they didn't show their faces again after that, and the next meeting, it was Harry in charge."

Annie raised her eyebrows and looked at Harry. "Just like that?"

Harry smirked. "Just like that."

Annie looked like she was about to question him further, but he was rescued just in time.

"All set, boss!" called Jaime, a stocky man who looked like a balding 14-year-old. He'd butchered the turkey and it was well on its way to being cooked, sitting on the grill with meat they'd got from the supermarket. Someone had even brought marshmallows and put them onto sticks, ready for dessert.

Harry tore himself away from Annie. "That's my cue," he said, and he clapped for everyone's attention.

"Okay, people!" he called, "It's time for the toasts. Before we start, does everyone have a full bottle?"

A murmur of agreement went around the gathering, and no one dashed for a new bottle, so Harry went on. He raised his beer high in the air.

"A toast to Woden, the Allfather, may he give the Queen victory and power!"

"To Woden!" the gathering replied, and they all drank deeply from their bottles. This was an old English ceremony, and that meant lots of ale.

Harry raised his bottle again. "A toast to Frea, may he bring good harvests and peace!"

"To Frea!" cried the crowd, and again they drank. For a third time, Harry raised his drink, then paused as Jamie ran to the cooler and took out another bottle. The crowd jeered good-naturedly.

When everyone was ready, he called: "To Her Majesty the Queen!"

"To the Queen!" For a third time the gathering cheered and drank.

When they were quiet again, Harry prepared to make the final toast. But someone interrupted him.

"To our departed kin!" called a voice from outside the clearing, and everyone froze.

"To our departed kin!" repeated Harry loudly, and the crowd cheered their final cheer, but this one was muted with curiosity. Everyone had turned to face the direction of the voice, peering into the darkness.

A tall man in a trench coat stepped out from the trees.

Harry moved to meet him, placing himself between the newcomer and the group. "Welcome, stranger," he called, his voice carrying a hint of question. "Come closer and introduce yourself."

The man stepped into the light and Harry recognised him immediately. He was broad-shouldered and handsome, with just a hint of danger in his eyes. A real lady-killer.

Harry embraced him with a smile. "Sirius Black," said Harry, shaking his head. "What the hell is a Watcher doing all the way out here?"


	2. Nature's Nobility

Summary: Only a scholarship allowed Harry to attend the elite Westminster School of the Magical Arts. Surrounded by decadent wealth and infamous names, he was quite happy to remain the outsider, never one of the club. That was, until the day he met Daphne Greengrass.

Author's Note: This story is set in an extremely alternate version of the magical world. We enter into things during the spring of 1997. Harry is 16, in the last term of his sixth year.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. I am simply borrowing the characters for personal enjoyment and not for profit.

Second disclaimer: some of you may recognise this story as being heavily inspired by Gossip Girl. Gossip Girl belongs to Cecily von Ziegesar and the CW Network. I am simply borrowing the characters and do not profit from this work of parody.

**Nature's Nobility**

_By Taure_

**Chapter One**

When he looked back, many years later, it would be clear to Harry Potter that April 21st, 1997 was the day his life changed. For better or for worse, that was the day Daphne Greengrass returned to London.

Not that Harry knew it when the day began.

He woke to the smell of toast and the gentle clinking of plates coming from the kitchen. Breakfast. Rolling over with a groan, he took his circular glasses from the bedside table and stared at the ceiling, letting everything sink in. It was the last day of the Easter holiday. Tomorrow he would once again be returning to the ignominy of Westminster School of the Magical Arts.

Westminster was the favoured school of the magical elite, full of the children of politicians, businessmen and great scholars. Harry was none of those. His family lived in an apartment in Wimbledon, not a Mayfair townhouse. His mother was a healer, not an heiress. And while Harry's father had left them a tidy sum when he had died, it was far from a fortune.

Only a generous scholarship allowed Harry to attend Westminster, and his classmates never forgot it - when they even remembered that he existed.

The sound of footsteps approached his door and, with little more than a cursory rap of the knuckles, Harry's mum Lily appeared in the doorway, dressed and ready for work in a skirt and blouse, her long red hair tied up in a neat bun.

"Up you get!" she said, letting light into the room with a flick of her wand. As usual, she insisted on doing her own magic - probably a result of being born to Muggles. "You wouldn't want to be late for work, would you?"

Harry's only response was to groan again and try to bury himself in his pillows, not for the first time regretting his decision to get a part-time job at his mother's clinic.

"There's croissants on the table and the kettle's boiled," Lily continued briskly, "We're leaving in thirty minutes, so you have to be quick."

Though she couldn't see him, Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum," he said into his pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric.

Lily made a doubtful sound and left the door open when she walked out, not letting him drift off again. Harry's room opened directly onto the open plan living area. If he were to look up he'd see breakfast on the kitchen island, just waiting to be eaten.

"You better get up soon or your sister's going to eat it all!"

She knew him well. A moment later Harry padded out of his room in his pyjamas and took a stool opposite his sister, blinking sleepily at the spread.

"I finished the jam," said Victoria with something of a cheerful smirk. Unlike Harry, who had inherited messy black hair and bad vision from their father, Victoria was her mother's child. With thick red hair and a petite stature, all they shared in common were their mother's green eyes. "You should've gotten up earlier."

By her loose hair and baggy t-shirt, Harry doubted she'd been up for long either. "Whatever," he said, pulling a mug towards himself. "_Pour_," he muttered, and the teapot lifted up into the air and poured out a perfectly golden cup of tea.

Victoria snatched a croissant. "What time are you getting home?" she asked, looking towards Lily, who was already flicking through a patient's file.

"Not 'til three," Lily replied, glancing up from her work. "Why? Do you need to go somewhere? I thought you were planning to transfigure a dress for that party."

Harry perked up. "Party? What party?"

Victoria smirked. "Pansy Parkinson's party tomorrow night. _Everyone's_ going."

"_You_ were invited? You're two years younger than her!" said Harry, unable to hide his incredulity. Victoria arched an eyebrow, not impressed. "Sorry," Harry added hastily, "but since when did Potters get invited to _Pansy Parkinson_ parties?"

"Since I offered to send out all the invites for her," said Victoria, looking rather pleased with herself.

Lily frowned. "You're telling me this girl made you _work_ for an invite?"

Harry snorted. "She's Pansy Parkinson," he said, as if that answered everything.

"And?" said Lily.

"And she's the meanest girl in school," Harry said, not quite knowing how to explain that Pansy ruled the girls of Westminster with a perfectly manicured fist.

"Spoken like someone without an invite," said Victoria airily, "you're just jealous."

"Yeah," said Harry sarcastically, "I'm really jealous of you having to wait on Pansy Parkinson hand and foot. _Enjoy_."

Whatever reply Victoria might have had was interrupted by a gentle chiming sound. "Hang on," she said, and she grasped the wide, silvery bangle on her wrist, upon which several lines of tiny runes were scrolling.

Invented just a few years ago, bangles had quickly become an essential item, allowing witches and wizards to send messages to each other instantly. Even Harry had one, though his was somewhat more masculine than Victoria's.

As Victoria read the message, her face grew more and more surprised. "Oh my god," she said, repeating herself several times.

Harry shook his head. "What is it this time?" The girls were constantly sharing gossip day and night - Harry could only wonder how much Victoria was paying every month.

"It's Daphne Greengrass," said Victoria, looking up at Harry with a smirk, "she's back in London."

Harry froze.

"Daphne Greengrass?" said Lily, looking up from her work again. "That name sounds familiar…"

"That's because it's the girl Harry's had a crush on for years," explained a grinning Victoria. "If only she knew he existed... say, I wonder if she'll be coming to the party tomorrow? She's best friends with Pansy, after all."

"Well, would you look at the time!" Harry said, standing up suddenly and looking at his watch. "Don't want to be late for work, do I Mum?"

And with that he turned and fled, not missing the amused look that passed between Lily and Victoria.

"Twenty minutes!" shouted Lily, just as the bathroom door closed. "Don't be late!"

Bordering Hyde Park on its eastern side, Mayfair was one of the most affluent neighbourhoods in central London, littered with hedge funds, luxury hotels, and high fashion. Its wide streets were spotless, its green squares quiet with the trickle of fountains and the distant sound of traffic. Tall and elegant Georgian townhouses looked down imperiously from all sides, as if challenging visitors to justify their presence.

Most exclusive of all was the tree-lined Grosvenor square, home to the Duke of Westminster and the United States consulate. For the people who lived in Grosvenor square, a mere millionaire was indistinguishable from a pauper.

And it was here that, even as Harry and Lily were arriving at work, a chauffeur was opening a car door for Daphne Greengrass. Blonde and beautiful, lithe and long-legged, she would have been at home on any runway in Europe. But today she was dressed casually, in dark jeans and a striped top, more girl-next-door than Parisian model. Only a golden bracelet and ring hinted at something more.

"Thanks," she said, giving the driver a warm smile as he handed over her luggage, a small case with an entire wardrobe inside. "Do I need to pay you?"

"No ma'am," he said, apparently used to showing respect to 16-year-old girls. "Your father takes care of all that. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you," Daphne repeated, and so he tipped his hat and left her on the pavement, looking up at the six-story house with a sigh.

The house belonged to Pansy Parkinson, and inside a breakfast of another kind was underway. Breakfast was a social affair in the world of the Parkinson family, and that meant formal dress and guests. Pyjamas in the kitchen were unthinkable. Every breakfast food imaginable was laid out on the dining room table, and the large, marble-floored entrance hall was full of women in fine dresses and men in close-cut suits.

Draco Malfoy was an exception to the rule. The silver-haired teen was lounging on a sofa in intricate robes, an outfit so traditional that it had become flamboyant. A pretty girl sat on either side of him, closer than was proper, but Draco barely seemed to notice them. He was more interested in his flute of champagne.

One of those girls was Parvati Patil, daughter to the Indian ambassador. "Have you heard the news?" she asked, leaning forward in excitement.

"Not interested," drawled Draco, taking a sip of his drink, "unless, of course, you and your sister have changed your minds about my proposal?"

"Ew," said Parvati, but she didn't move away. She glanced back at the bangle on her wrist, where hundreds of tiny diamonds were rearranging themselves into scrolling runes. "Daphne Greengrass was seen apparating in from France an hour ago."

Draco's eyes glittered in anticipation. "And here I thought this term was going to be boring."

Immersed as they were in conversations about real estate and business deals, the adults seemed completely oblivious to the rumour spreading among their children. Unusually, Pansy shared in the adults' ignorance: chatting with Daphne's mother, she was prohibited by politeness from checking her messages.

Dark haired and thin, Pansy would have been considered extremely pretty if not for her unfortunate pug nose. She tried to make up for it by dressing impeccably - one look at her and you knew she had spent at least thirty minutes accessorising. She prided herself on being the perfect socialite.

Currently she was listening attentively as Eva Greengrass told her about the most recent addition to her art collection.

"... simply a marvelous piece," said Eva, who looked very much like an older version of her daughter, "you'll see it next time you visit Daphne, I'm sure. I've had it put up in the living room."

Pansy smiled politely. "I'm sorry, the next time I visit? Isn't Daphne at Beauxbatons?"

"She didn't tell you?" asked Eva with a frown. Daphne and Pansy were supposed to be best friends. "Daphne will be coming back to Westminster for the summer term."

Pansy's smile became rather fixed. "Of course I knew," she said, scanning the party for her boyfriend. "If you'll excuse me."

She walked over to where Blaise was standing with his mother, looking as handsome as ever. Blessed with smooth black skin and a swimmer's body, Blaise Zabini was widely considered the most eligible bachelor of their year. The perfect partner for Pansy.

"So good to see you here, Francesca," Pansy said, kissing her boyfriend's mother on the cheek. It was easy to see where Blaise got his looks from: Francesca Zabini was as famous for her beauty as she was for her multiple divorces.

"Pansy," said Blaise with an easy grin, wrapping an arm around her. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Pansy in a sing-song voice, leaning into his side. "Can we talk?"

"Er, sure," said Blaise, before giving his mother an apologetic look.

"Always a pleasure, Pansy," said Francesca Zabini, her voice flavoured with just a hint of her native Italy.

"Likewise," replied Pansy, before leading Blaise away by the hand, hurrying towards the staircase. If Daphne was on her way back, Pansy couldn't waste a moment. Blaise was hers, and there was no way she was going to risk Daphne stealing him away.

"What's got into you?" hissed Blaise, nodding to a few people he knew as they passed. "Where are we going?"

"My bedroom," replied Pansy, enjoying the look of shock on his face.

"_Now?_" said Blaise, glancing around furtively. "_Here_?"

"Now," confirmed Pansy, but it was not to be. When they were half-way up the stairs and still in full view of the party, the front door opened and Daphne stepped through, her casual dress immediately out of place.

"Is that Daphne?" said Blaise, turning sharply.

Pansy tugged on his arm. "Daphne can wait," she said, "come on."

"Not now," said Blaise, shaking her off easily. "Don't you want to say hi?"

"Of course," Pansy said with a sigh, fixing another smile, "she's my best friend."

But it was Eva who reached Daphne first, embracing her daughter briefly before stepping back to inspect her. "Oh my dear, it's so good to see you," she said, looking dangerously close to actually shedding a tear, "but don't you think you're a little underdressed?"

"Thanks, Mum," Daphne said sarcastically, "Beauxbatons was fine, thanks for asking."

Eva arched an eyebrow. "I would have thought the less said of that, the better," she said. "Now, shall we see if Pansy has something more suitable for you to wear for breakfast?"

"In a moment," Daphne said while glancing around the room, "where's Astoria?"

"Later," replied Eva quietly, a tone of finality to her voice.

Daphne looked incredulous. "She's not here?" she said, trying to keep her voice down, "Mum, she can't still be in-"

"Pansy!" Eva cried in greeting, interrupting Daphne as Pansy and Blaise arrived. A feeling of intense discomfort shivered through Daphne the moment she saw them. Blaise was looking at her far too intently - something Pansy had surely noticed - and Daphne could barely bring herself to meet her best friend's eyes.

"Daphne! You should've said you were coming!" said Pansy cheerfully, moving in to hug her. To anyone else, it would have sounded like old friends greeting each other. Daphne had known Pansy long enough to know what it really meant: "you weren't invited".

"I was just saying that Daphne should join us for breakfast," said Eva, "you don't mind, do you Pansy?"

To her credit, Pansy didn't even blink. "Of course not," she said immediately.

"Excellent," continued Eva, "Daphne, why don't you head upstairs to change? You must have _something_ to wear in that case."

"I was really just dropping by on my way home," said Daphne. "Queasy from the apparition - you know how it is." She rubbed her stomach as if to demonstrate how ill she felt.

"Well, if you're sure," said Eva, seeing through Daphne's lie easily. She _was_ her mother.

"Sorry to leave so quickly," Daphne added, mostly addressing Pansy. "I'll see you at school tomorrow?"

"School it is," said Pansy, her sweet smile promising all sorts of pain.

It was only once Daphne was outside and several houses down the street that Blaise caught up with her.

"Daphne!" he called, jogging up to her, "wait up!"

She turned to face him, steeling herself for an uncomfortable conversation. "What is it, Blaise?"

"What, you're not even gonna say hello?" he said with a grin, spreading his arms. "After what happened-"

"_Nothing_ happened," said Daphne, glaring. "Do you understand me? You're with Pansy, and that's that."

Blaise looked confused. "Daphne, come on," he said, "I thought, when I saw you, that you'd come back for-"

"I didn't come back for _you_," said Daphne, rather more sharply than she intended. A look of hurt crossed Blaise's face. "I'm sorry," she tried to add, "I didn't mean…"

"No, it's fine," said Blaise, drawing back. His voice was colder. "I should go. Pansy's waiting. I'll see you at school, Daphne."


	3. Maia (Harry Potter-LotR)

**Maia**

By Taure

_Chapter One - The Wilderness_

_Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear-_

_He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone._

Harry opened his eyes and, for the first time in his life, he _saw_. A veil had been lifted from before him, like he was waking from a long, dark dream to finally see the light of day. The world came to him in bright and vivid colour, resting as he was in a small forest glade, entirely unlike that of the Forbidden forest. Here it was light, and peaceful. The songs of birds filled the air, and the grass was a healthy green around him.

A blade of grass caught his eye and he stared at it, transfixed. Never before had anything seemed more beautiful to Harry, so complex yet delicate, so perfect in its design. He looked at it and he _perceived_ it, his vision piercing beyond the seen. He gazed upon its inner workings and he understood them all, even as a child understands laughter. He had no names for its parts, nor theories of how they worked. He looked upon that leaf and he knew it like a man knows how to catch a ball, though he may know nothing of science or mathematics. Every part had its place, and Harry knew them all. If he closed his eyes he could have pictured it still, though he would have found it hard to put into words.

But he did not close his eyes. For a year and a day he gazed upon that blade of grass, amazed and awed by its beauty to the exclusion of all else. And as time passed, his vision penetrated deeper still, through to the very base of being, and there he heard it - the music. It seemed familiar to Harry, through he could not guess where from, and he hummed along with it, feeling out its depths and highs, its gentle melody. It seemed to him that the music was the grass, and the grass was the music.

For an age of the earth Harry might have rested there, contemplating grass, had a fox not come and stepped on it.

Harry started, and looked down at the broken blade, trampled into the earth. He wept openly at its loss, and, without thinking, sang a song of lament, the words of which he would never remember. It came from deep within him, from the same place as the music of the grass, and he let it guide him.

When the song was finished, Harry remembered who he was.

_Is this death? It doesn't seem so bad._

It was then, as Harry moved to get up, that he realised he didn't have a body. Strangely, he didn't panic. It felt... natural. Comfortable. He could still see the world, though now he thought about it, it wasn't quite the same as sight. It was _awareness_, unlimited by the senses of man, extending around him in all directions. He'd been focused on the grass, but now he focused on a tree several yards away, and he knew it like he was standing right before it. He could smell the scent of the bark, trace the texture of its surface, and perceive the slow movement of liquids within.

Experimenting, Harry tried to feel further, stretching his senses outwards. But it wasn't his senses that expanded, it was _him_. He felt himself growing and filling the glade and beyond, a hundred yards around, and everything within that space he touched and knew - the trees, tall and older than Harry could have imagined, the flowers of vibrant blues and reds and gold, the animals running upon the ground, the insects crawling within the earth. And he knew, too, that should he wish to change those things he could, shaping the area of his being according to his wishes. He could raise the earth, or call water from the deeps to create a flood. He could bind the creatures to his will, or send them fleeing from his demesne.

The temptation to change things was immense, but then Harry remembered that single blade of grass, broken on the ground, and he withdrew. It was beautiful as it was. Who was he to try to change it on a whim?

For some time he stayed in that state, content to observe the ways of the forest. His mind turned several times to his friends, wondering what became of them and Voldemort. A quiet peace filled his being and he found himself unable to panic or worry. His thoughts were full of fondness for those he loved, but he had accepted death and passed on. Harry had played his part, and one day he was sure they would all meet again. But for now, he was on his next great adventure.

The sun rose and set a hundred times. As the days passed, Harry became aware that his glade was changing. The colours of the flowers bloomed brighter, the green of the grass grew deeper and more lush. Animals came more frequently, often lingering within his presence, becoming playful and energetic within his glade of calm and fertility. Even the trees seemed to twist and move, forming a perfect circle around him, their branches intertwining to create archways.

The world itself bent to the presence of the wizard, welcoming him, feeding from him, transforming to suit his desires.

When Autumn arrived and the leaves fell, Harry felt the desire for a body once more. He wanted to not just observe the world but to be a part of it. He wished to feel the damp dew beneath his feet, to run his hands through the fur of an animal, to feel the light of the sun upon his face.

And so he fashioned himself a body. He worked on pure instinct alone, pulling his awareness back into himself, drawing back from the world to a single point in the centre of his glade. Slowly, over many days, the grass grew upwards around him, creating a lattice - a scaffold in the shape of a man. His presence filled the shell, solidifying, remembering limbs and flesh and the beat of a living heart.

The body was finished a year later.

His first breath was a dreadful gasp, rattling and strained. His throat was tight, his lungs as yet unused to air. But his strength returned rapidly: he took several deep, steadying breaths, and opened his eyes.

For over two years he had called that glade home, but it felt like he was seeing it for the first time again. His senses were limited by eyes and ears and a nose, but those limits gave him focus. Everything was so much more immediate, so much more tangible. The fresh smell of grass filled the air, a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees, and somewhere in the distance Harry could hear the sound of running water. A chuckle grew deep in Harry's stomach and he smiled broadly. He was so _awake_.

He flexed his fingers and marvelled at the power within his flesh. The form he took was of Harry Potter, but it was not the Harry Potter of Hogwarts. Once thin and short-sighted, Harry now stood taller, stronger, and without glasses.

He brushed the fine web of grass from his body and stepped forward, idly noting his nakedness. He found himself curiously unconcerned at the prospect: his body itself was like clothing, housing his spirit. Though he had taken physical form, he could still feel it, deep within his bones - the sense that he was more than this body, that he was a being of spirit and music, not flesh and blood.

_Ah, music! A magic far beyond all we do here!_

He began to explore, setting forth from his glade, walking slowly so as to take everything in. He trailed his hands across the trunks of the trees, smelled flowers and inspected leaves. He picked nothing, merely grasping each plant gently before releasing it. When he did so, the plant would leave his hands healthier than before.

He made his way towards the sound of water and found a small stream, wide but shallow, with a rocky bottom. The flow of the water was mesmerising, and Harry lost himself in the ripples, the crests and dips, the small whirlpools that formed for brief seconds. There was a pattern there, he sensed, and - yes, there! - he found himself able to predict where the whirlpools would form, some deep intuition telling him how the water would move.

He drank deeply from the stream, enjoying its clarity. The water had once been snow, he felt. It must have travelled far, for Harry could see no mountains above the trees. The forest seemed to stretch on forever, and for all Harry knew that was what it did. Who knew how the realm of death worked? Clearly this world followed different rules than Harry's own.

Harry focused on the other side of the stream and turned on the spot, intending to apparate. Nothing happened. That settled it: though this world clearly had magic of some sort, it was different to the magic Harry was familiar with. It was a subtler sort of magic, Harry thought, tied in with nature and spirit, and yet in some respects more potent than anything Harry had heard of. Not even Dumbledore could have formed himself a new body at will.

Harry spent the rest of the day wandering, careful to return to his glade frequently so that he might remember its location. Surprisingly, despite spending the whole day walking, he did not grow hungry. Occasionally he would pick a berry from a bush, but he ate then more for the joy of eating than from any need for sustenance.

Eventually it grew dark and Harry returned home. It was a clear night and the stars were out, more magnificent than any Harry had ever seen. He lay in the centre of his glade staring up at them, resting without sleeping. Like food, his need for sleep seemed greatly diminished. It was near midnight when he heard the hoot of an owl.

Harry sat up, smiling in nostalgia.

"Where are you, friend?" he called, running his eyes through the trees around him, his vision piercing through the dark. "Come out - I shan't hurt you."

A small tawny owl descended from a tree with a flutter of wings, coming to land in front of Harry. He held out his hand and the owl hopped forward cautiously, coming to rest on his palm. It was extraordinarily light. "You're a handsome one, aren't you?" said Harry, smiling down at him. "I think you need a name."

The owl cocked its head, staring up at him with amber eyes. "I think… Remus. You look like a Remus, to me."

If the owl accepted this name it gave no sign. "Would you like to sit with me, Remus?" Harry asked, looking back up to the stars. "It's a beautiful night."

Remus hooted, ruffled his feathers and flew away. Harry smiled. Remus would return, he was certain.

Years passed and the forest became Harry's home. He filled his life with nature, learning all about the plants and animals that surrounded him. He would spend whole days contemplating a single petal or insect, listening for the music at the core of their being. It was more difficult in this human form, but it came with patience and practice. He was learning the songs of elm and birch and oak, of pansies and bluebells and daisies, of worms and bees and mice. And sometimes he would sing the songs himself, and he found that the songs held power.

Harry's glade had changed. He had sung to the oaks which surrounded it, encouraging them to grow tall and strong, rising far above the surrounding forest like a crown. In their heights, branches had woven together to form platforms and roofs, small treehouses from which Harry overlooked the forest and watched the stars. In the centre of the glade Harry raised a stone plinth from the earth, the shadow of which Harry used to tell the hour. On its sides Harry marked each day, forming a calendar to track the passing of time.

The stream, too, was different. He had whispered to the water, calling down more melt from the mountains, growing the stream into a small river. The trees shifted to make way for the water, and now it looked like a gardener tended to the river banks, keeping them clear and clean.

Remus was his nocturnal companion, often perching on Harry's shoulder as he strolled through the starlit trees, leaving only to catch a mouse or two. Though Harry gave him no formal training, Remus seemed to understand him, fetching Harry fruit and berries from the treetops.

As the seasons changed Harry's explorations took him further and further from the glade, until he was returning there only rarely to add marks to his calendar. The area which Harry considered _his_ grew and grew, and each part of woodland he adopted flourished and blossomed.

It was a decade before he encountered other men.

Harry was sitting on a fallen tree, enjoying a midday strawberry, when he first heard their voices. There was a group of them, all male. He froze when he heard them, surprise filling him at the thought of human company. The language they spoke seemed harsh to his ears, jeering and guttural, but they laughed often and easily.

After several minutes it was clear that they were walking in Harry's direction. Who were they? Were they friendly? So far everything in Harry's forest was peaceful and beautiful. Who were these men who would invade his lands?

Wary but curious, Harry shed his body, letting it dissipate into nothingness. It was as easy as slouching. Now invisible and intangible, once more perceiving the world with that strange, direct_ awareness_, Harry flittered through the air, spreading out his senses.

It didn't take long to find the men, trampling their way through the undergrowth, slashing and destroying to make a path. There were four of them, dressed strangely to Harry's eye, in clothes that reminded him of studying the Saxons in primary school. Dirty and bearded, they were armed, too, with primitive weapons: three of them carried bows and arrows, and the other - the leader, it seemed to Harry - a large axe.

Their language was completely incomprehensible to him. They spoke loudly and aggressively, often interrupting each other. From their laughter, it was clear that they were telling jokes, yet Harry felt that their jests were not kind.

After following them for a day, it became clear that the men were hunters of some kind. He watched them walk in the day and make camp at night, lighting fires for warmth and pulling cured meats and stale rye bread from their packs to eat.

It was strange that they needed food while he did not. Even in death, wizards were apparently different. These... Muggles seemed to lack all of the abilities Harry now took for granted. If not for their dress and strange language, Harry might have thought he was back in the land of the living.

They were slowly making their way south, closer and closer to Harry's glade. But before they entered Harry's domain, the men killed a deer, managing to shoot it through the neck with an arrow. The moment it was dead the men sprung into action, moving to skin and butcher it quickly. While one of them handled the hide, the other three cut the meat into long, thin strips, which they then laid across a frame of sticks to be smoked.

Harry watched with interest and mild disgust as the fourth man scraped the skin clean, rubbed it with a mixture of water and brains before setting it over the smoke.

That night was one of celebration between the men, and they ate like kings, slow-cooking large steaks of venison over a fire. The next day they broke camp with a feeling of finality and started walking north with purpose, their sacks full of meat. Harry followed them all the way back to their village.

In truth, "village" was too grand a word for the settlement, home to just over one hundred people. Their houses were wooden huts, a single room playing host to old and young alike, the whole family living and sleeping together. Chickens and even a couple of pigs were their greatest treasures, and many families maintained a vegetable patch near their home. Near the centre of the village was a fire pit and it was there that the people congregated, the children playing while their parents worked, gossiped and traded.

It was not a luxurious existence, but Harry knew the forest around them was abundant. Most surprising of all were the signs of a greater world beyond: many families had small supplies of salt and pepper, and one particularly rich family even had a bag of coffee beans. The village, it seemed, was not completely isolated.

The four hunters returned in triumph, the whole village gathering round to admire the tanned pelt and hoard of smoked meat. It was then that the haggling started. The man with the axe - whose name seemed to be _Bog_ - traded almost all of his share for a bronze knife. _Garp_, whose arrow had killed the deer, kept the pelt but exchanged most of his meat for a copper cooking pot. Eventually the crowd dispersed and everyone returned to their labours, giving Harry the opportunity to explore.

After a several days of living invisibly among them, Harry began to pick out individual words in their speech. The nouns came first: _lik_ was fire, _ata_ was water. The sounds for "come here" and "go away" were also among the earliest Harry identified. It took much longer to advance further than basic names and commands: eight long months passed before Harry first heard a conversation that he understood completely.

This basic understanding came just in time, for a week later a significant event occurred which excited the whole village: a trader came to visit. He came down the river on a small barge, and with him came salt and sugar, wool and cotton and silk, medicines and weapons of iron.

Much that he carried was beyond the means of the village, but his most valuable product he gave away for free: news.

"Wouldya look at this 'un!" said old Horl, picking up a small dagger of fine make. Gently curving like a leaf, the blade was engraved with a floral motif, and strange runes were carved into the handle. "I ain't seen nothing like this never!"

"Paid a pretty penny for that, I did," said Thom the trader, a tall, slightly fat black-haired man, bearded like the others. He'd set himself up in the centre of the village, surrounded by a selection of his goods. "Though rightly I don't think them who sold it to me knew how valuable it was. Strange folk they were, I don't mind saying, tall and fancy-like. Appeared out of nowhere a few winters back - more than a few, now I think about it - hundreds an' hundreds of them."

"Oo are they, then?" said Pol, a young woman who'd recently married Bog.

"An' 'ow much for the knife?" added Bog.

Thom snatched the dagger back from Horl, his smile revealing yellow teeth. "Nothing less than five gold pieces," he declared, and everyone groaned. Harry doubted anyone in the village had ever so much as seen a single gold piece. "Like I said, fine work it is, though I dare say more like it is coming. Times are changing, friends. Them pointy-eared folk know what they're doing. You should see it, far to the north… amazing, it is."

"What is?" cried a young boy, looking up in wonder. No doubt Thom seemed like a king to him.

Thom smiled again. "They're building a huge city up there, bigger than anything I ever saw. A hundred hundred times bigger than _this_ place, that's for sure. And all of it of white stone… I saw a house taller than the trees - an' it weren't even finished yet!"

This declaration was met with general scepticism, but it inflamed in Harry a burning curiosity. Civilisation! _Real_ civilisation, not this tiny little village. And with that came an idea.

If he wished to make a good impression, he couldn't just turn up at this city naked and poor. Material possessions, it seemed, mattered as much in death as they did in life. It was time to return to a body.


	4. White Wizard (HP-Dresden Files)

AN: Voldemort point of view.

**The White Wizard**

By Taure

**Chapter One**

I have always considered myself something of a survivor. The most resilient, the most adaptable, I need little in the way of material possessions or comfort. A wand and, yes, a body, are all I need. The rest is for lesser wizards. Possessions are a weakness. Take Lucius. He believes that power is to be found in wealth and prestige. He lives a life envied by many: manor house, beautiful wife, political access.

He is _weak_.

His house ties him down. I am ultimately mobile. His family diverts his attention, dilutes his priorities, can be taken as hostages. I have no such attachments; my purpose is pure. And politics? I have always disdained political power. It is a given power, a power that others permit you, a power of association, mighty in some ways, but fickle, subject to change, _temporary_.

I despise the temporary.

True power is intrinsic, taken into yourself, made one with. True power lies in permanence. In _immortality_. Death lays all meaning to waste. If one dies, what was the point of anything? From the perspective of the dead, life may as well not have been lived. The dead occupy exactly the same space as those who are never born: inexistence.

And so power and immortality are innately intertwined. Only those who do not die can ever have true power; only those with true power have freedom.

No one can take my power from me. I have bought it with blood and pain. I have bought it with years of learning and planning. I have bought it with patience.

With my wand alone I can provide for my trivial needs. I can create any luxury I desire. I can bend a man to my will. I can create visions of wonder and beauty. I can bring low my enemies, and protect those who are worthy of my beneficence. I can rearrange the world according to my wishes.

If I so wish, I can wage a war. Knowledge is my sword, ruthlessness my shield.

Perhaps you begin to understand. I was born into squalor; the richest men in the world now debase themselves before me. I was once bullied; now the world trembles at my name. Before, I was mortal; I have bought eternal life.

And then I lost my body, my powers all but broken, forsaken by my most loyal.

I survived.

I endure.

Lord Voldemort will rise once more.

_The horcruxes work._

That was my first thought, once the pain ended. The Killing Curse which rebounded from Harry Potter did not kill me. While I had confidence in them, the horcruxes had always been somewhat experimental. Though hardly well-documented, I was moderately certain that no one had ever created multiple horcruxes.

And so it was that my first feeling was one of relief.

My body was broken. My ambitions were undoubtably foiled. I was still suffering from my violent ejection from corporeality. But I felt relieved. And why not? I had avoided death. While I lived, hope of recovery remained. And once recovered, I would learn from my mistake. I had been insufficiently cautious. I had underestimated the Potter boy, and Dumbledore too. Next time I would be more careful.

I had more immediate concerns in the present.

The rebounded curse had translocated me. My disembodied spirit was drifting through a forest covered in snow. The trees were pine, and the snow was deeper than Britain receieved. I summised myself to be further east, either Scandanavia or Russia. From the height of the sun, I couldn't be as far north as Norway. Russia, then, somewhere fairly southern but far enough inland to be this cold in October. There was no way my followers would find me here. Not of their own accord. I would have to send them a signal. A signal only a Death Eater would see – I could not afford Dumbledore finding me in such a weakened state.

I was so weak that I could barely determine the direction of my drifting. I could not fathom how I would send a signal to my Death Eaters from this place, never mind one subtle enough to pass Dumbledore's notice.

It came to me then, what I had always known: I could not rely on my followers. Horcruxes had a flaw: I needed aid to return to power.

Aid I could not expect.

My first priority was to restore my body. I would need to find a being and possess them. After that, I would fashion myself a wand, or acquire one. Once I had a wand, I could return to England.

Time was of the essence. Without my power to contest Dumbledore, he would soon find and destroy the Death Eaters. Further, I had many Ministry officials under the Imperius. I could not be sure of keeping them so bound, without a body. Even now they could be waking from their enchanted passivity. My position had little precedent; there were no certainties on the path I took. I was accustomed to it being so, and my inferences were usually correct. In this case, I was sure that my disembodiment would lead to the breaking of many of my curses.

Years of work, undone in a moment. Phantom fingers itched for a wand. It irked me to be so passive, so inactive, drifting through the branches.

Regaining a body was my priority.

It did not take long for me to deduce that I was not in Russia. It was beyond obvious: after what felt like several days, the sun had not set. In fact, it hadn't moved at all. While I couldn't be certain of my ability to track time, at least several hours had to have past.

No, I was not in Russia. I wasn't even on Earth.

This was some kind of magical realm, something out of myth and legend. Once I knew it, it was easy to see the signs. The forest was unnaturally quiet, devoid of wildlife. The snow fell from the sky without pause, yet the snow on the ground didn't change. And the way the wind moved the trees contradicted the gentle descent of snowflakes.

A terrible thought gripped me then, briefly paralysing in its intensity: perhaps the horcruxes hadn't worked. Perhaps this was some kind of afterlife, an empty land of nothing but trees and snow.

I dismissed it. The horcruxes had worked. This was not death. Death was not an eerie winter landscape. Death was a void. Death was nothingness. And if there were an afterlife, it was certain that Lord Voldemort would be destined for one more terrible than this.

But if not an afterlife, I did not know where I could be. In all my travels, I had never encountered a place such as this. It was more than Schröder's Extended Space, more even than a Russellian pocket universe. It was like something from a children's story.

I would have to explore, though it took significant effort to move myself willfully. Maybe I could find some being I could trick into lending me aid.

Time passed. I could not say how long, only that it felt very long indeed. Months, perhaps. Maybe even years. I continued my search without rest. Breaks were a luxury I could not afford.

I continued to observe the forest and its supernatural aspects. The more I witnessed, the stranger that land became. Trees did not grow from seeds: they replicated like bacteria. A branch would fall off one tree, burrow into the ground, and immediately begin sprouting leaves. Very occasionally, the snow would spontaneously form animated Snowmen with serrated teeth and glowing coal eyes. I had tried possessing them, but they always fled from me.

The Snowmen were the only living beings – if living they were – that I had seen. Until I met her.

It had been a long time since I had seen anything new. I continued to wander, but with little enthusiasm. My inability to comprehend the passing of time was worst of all. I had never realised how important it is, psychologically, to perceive the passing of time. I longed for a nightfall that never came. How long was it since I had arrived here? How long since the last Snowman? I could not tell, and it was maddening.

Eventually, my frustration overcame my patience and caution.

The forest angered me. It was never-ending, repetitive, and empty of anything of useful. It would look much better clothed in flames.

_Pyrus_, I thought.

The effort of casting the spell drained me as no magic ever has. I felt my very being tremble, like a small flame in the wind, and the world lost some of its clarity. I lost the ability to direct myself, and had to fight to stay conscious.

The spell itself was mostly unsuccessful. A single tree was smoking, struggling against the cold to ignite. Before my fall I could have burnt hundreds of trees to a crisp in an instant, starting a fire that would not have stopped until the entire forest was reduced to a charred wasteland.

That was when she appeared to me. My spell, though it did little to the forest, must have attracted her attention.

She emerged from behind a tree with a false informality, as if she were taking an afternoon stroll. The picture was spoilt in several ways. Firstly, her mere presence caused icicles to form on the trees, and my spell to splutter and die. Secondly, she carried herself like a predator; there was a feline aspect to her movements, an air about her that would have had my reaching for my wand. Finally, she was naked.

She was, it must be said, beautiful. I have never been a particularly lustful being, but I can appreciate such things in an objective manner. She was finely crafted. Pale skin, and white hair, she was the daughter Narcissa dreamed of. Full of vitality, she had the figure of a woman. And then there were her eyes. They were a deep green which triggered memories of pain.

The method and timing of her arrival implied she had sought me out. There was little use in hiding, and I was still weak from the spell. I would be at this being's mercy. She walked towards me slowly, each step taken with almost exagerated care. It was a power play. She was circling her prey, letting me know I was cornered. I waited for her. Though she had the advantage, I knew one thing: I could not die. There was a limit to what this being (for she was surely not a human woman) could do to me.

She came to a stop in front of me, not two metres away. She stared into the space where my perception existed, and her held tilted to one side; an animalistic show of curiousity.

"What," she said, her words chilling the air, her tone regal, "are you?"

She sounded like she resented having to ask the question. She was used to knowing things, then. A being of authority, or knowledge. I looked into her eyes, but couldn't read anything there. Did my legilimency fail me because of my condition, or hers? I couldn't tell.

I saw no reason in lying.

"I am a wizard," I replied. Not audibly, of course. I had no mouth. But I surpass even Dumbledore when it comes to the arts of the mind. I spoke as I would during a possession: not with muscles, but with my will.

"No," she said. She walked around me in a circle, examining me.

"No? You doubt me?"

"You are no wizard," she said with a tone of finality.

Her disagreement irritated me. I suppressed the flash of anger.

"I was a wizard," I corrected. Silly semantic games were Dumbledore's entertainment. I had little use for them, but the old man had inadvertently trained me well in their practice.

"Indeed?"

She reached out, and touched me. Accustomed to my incorporeality, I was startled. She should not have been able to do that. I drew satisfaction from her look of shock. Had she not intended on it?

"An impressive rite, to have changed your essence so... thoroughly." She spoke now with hidden intent. There was a hunger in her voice that, in such a weakened state as I was, filled me with uncertainty. It was not a familiar feeling. "Tell me how you accomplished this thing, and I shall grant your deepest desire."

I had performed no such rite, of course, but there was apparently some gain to be had in maintaining the illusion. But I was cautious, still. I did not wish to reveal my true desires, not immediately. I couldn't let her know how desperate I truly was.

"And what gift can you offer me?" I asked. "I need little."

"What gift, he asks!" she called, shouting to the forest in incredulity. "What gift can Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness, give the meanest of spirits, barely substantial, hovering before the doors of oblivion? I can give you power, if that is what you seek, raising you up to a Lord of the Sidhe. I can plant within you the seed of new talents. I can offer you my protection, or strike down your enemies. I can show you hidden places, tell you secret Names. I could show you such pleasure that your mind could barely comprehend it."

Mab, Queen of Air and Darkness. I was truly in the realm of myth and legend, then. But her name was encouraging, despite her disheartening knowledge of my condition. Legends spoke of her on Earth. Even the Muggles had heard of her. That meant that there was some way of moving between this world and Earth.

"Or," she continued, her eyes hard, "I can wipe you from existence for trespassing on my realm. I can take from you native powers. I can place a price on your head. I can imprison you for eternity, and teach you torment that only spirits can know. The choice is yours."

Though I didn't believe that she could kill me, I certainly believed that she could harm my spirit significantly. It was time to reveal my desires, before she turned on me.

"I would name two gifts, in exchange for the knowledge of my transformation."

Mab's lips stretched into a smile. It did not fill me with confidence.

"What is it to be, spirit? Shall I grant you a kingdom of Faerie?"

"No," I said. "I desire more humble gifts. Firstly, you will restore me to my body. Then you will return me to Earth."

Mab lost her smile. We stood in silence for a while, each observing the other.

"Such ungrateful requests are within my power. Yet I find that my generosity fades. I offer you Winter, and you request the means to leave. Restoring your body would be a feat few beings can perform. The magic will be easier for me, should you tell me your name."

My name. An interesting request. She had offered me names as gifts, as though they had value equal to that of kingdoms. It would be foolish to give her my own, if they were really so valuable to her. Who knows what arcane magic she could perform with it? And yet, I was in a desperate situation.

"I accept your terms. You shall return me to my body, and transport me uninjured to Earth. In exchange for these favours, I shall tell you of my transformation."

Mab's eyes flashed; I couldn't read it. Was it anger? Victory?

"Done, done and done. Three times I accept your offer. Now tell me how you came to be as you are."

"Telling would be so much easier with a mouth. Return me to my body first, and then I shall tell you."

Mab's eyes narrowed.

"Do not think you can cheat me, spirit. I shall hold you to our bargin. But I shall humour you. Tell me your name and I shall restore your body."

"My name," I said, "is Lord Voldemort."

Mab changed instantly. Her face twisted in rage, and she took hold of my spirit as if grabbing me by the throat.

"Do not lie to me!" she said, but not with her voice. It was a command that resonated painfully through me, compelling me to speak.

"Tom Riddle," I said, my own rage almost suffocating. How dare she make me speak that name? "My name is Tom Riddle."

With the greatest exertion of will I manage to keep my middle name from her. She seemed to be satisfied. She calmed as fast as she angered, and let go of me.

"Tom Riddle," she said slowly, letting the name hover on her lips. "Be."

Cold bloomed in me, a white-hot cold that burned through my being. It extended outwards, and I with it. For the first time in what felt like forever I had extension, I occupied space. I looked at myself. I was made of ice, rapidly growing into the shape of a man. And then I wasn't cold anymore, but warm, and it wasn't ice that I was looking at, but pale flesh.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold air, relishing my body once more. I felt my face. I was exactly as I had been: tall, filled with wiry strength, with the acquired snake-like features that came with my horcruxes. Many were repulsed by such an appearance. It had always empowered me. I was more than a man. Even the cold of this place barely affected me, though I had cast no spell to repel it.

"Enough, wizard," Mab said. If she was surprised at my appearance, she hid it well. "Fulfill your end of the bargain."

I smiled. Even though I lacked a wand, I could once more feel the steel of my power filling me being. I was not helpless. It filled me with confidence.

"My disembodiment was not intended. It was done to me by another; a baby no less. I have yet to divine the source of his power."

Mab screamed in anger, and it was a scream filled with power. The trees rocked back from her, the air chilled, and had I still been a spirit, I would have likely been shredded to the brink of inexistence.

My body was not so helpless. I stood proud and tall and let the unfocused magic wash over me, spreading my arms, still relishing the feeling of substance.

"I will ask you one more time, wizard. Tell me no lie, and leave nothing out, or I shall destroy you. I have no interest in how you came to be a spirit. Tell me how you altered your essence. Tell me why your exposed spirit resonates the power of the White God."

For the first time in many years, I was completely confused. I could not even guess at Mab's meaning. My past attempts at lying had failed me. Perhaps it was time for some honesty.

"I don't know."

There was no explosion of rage this time, no scream. Mab simply stared at me, her gaze peircing. She gave no indication of her thoughts.

She gestured and the air parted like a curtain. The portal led to a lake. It was summer on the other side, and I could feel the warmth radiating through the opening.

"Earth?"

"Yes," she said, "as we agreed. You have fulfilled your end of the bargin, though you sought to decieve me. Step through and our deal will be concluded."

I stepped back onto Earth, returning to colour and warmth of birdsong. A large Muggle city could be seen nearby, with taller towers than any city in Britain. Chicago, if I remembered correctly. No matter. I could apparate.

I turned back to Mab. She was still watching me through the veil between worlds.

"We will meet again, Tom Riddle."

She portal closed.

I had returned.


	5. Children of the Gods (HP-Stargate)

**Children of the Gods**

By Taure

**Prologue**

_Egypt, 1928_

They had found something big. The desert site was in chaos, swarms of workers dressed in little more than rags running between the makeshift tents, all of them heading towards the third dig.

"Professor! Professor!"

A car sped into the camp in a cloud of dust and an English gentlemen in khaki disembarked. He was, Albert knew, the leader of the dig.

"Professor!" a man was calling, running over to the car in excitement. "You have to see! It's amazing!"

The professor and his assistant hurried off into the pits, moving rapidly down the ramshackle path of wooden planks that wove between the different digs.

"Shall we?" Albert said to his partner. He put a white hat on his head. Dressed as they were in loose-fitting robes of beige, they fit in well enough with the locals.

"Let's see what they've found," replied Henry.

Moving unnoticed by the Muggles, they followed the professor, watching as he was led to a large sunburst of stone slabs.

"Those aren't hieroglyphs," said Henry as the professor knelt down to examine the find. Each stone was marked with a single symbol.

"Nor any other language I recognise," said Albert. "Curious indeed."

The professor stood up again. "Finished so soon?" muttered Henry. "Surely it deserves more attention than that."

Albert looked around at the milling Arabs. "There's something else," he said, frowning. "Something bigger."

The professor was led down more wooden walkways, these ones rising out of the second dig and leading to the third. The unspeakables followed at a distance, hurrying when they heard a great cheer.

And then, turning a corner, they saw it: a giant ring of dark grey stone, a hundred ropes attached, was standing vertically in the centre of the dig. It was big enough to fit an erumpent through the middle.

"My god," said Albert, staring at the thing in awe. The inner ring was divided into segments, and each segment had been carved with a strange symbol… symbols like those on the sunburst stones. Even with his limited ability to sense magical traces, Albert could feel the power of the artifact.

"Contact the Ministry immediately," Henry said. He pulled out his wand. "I'll handle the obliviation."

**Chapter One**

_London, January 2010_

The interrogation room was white. Really white.

The floor, walls and ceiling were all made of the same white ceramic tiles. The table in front of him and the chair he sat on were both made of a white wood. Even the lighting charms above him had been modified to give off an unnatural white light. And just on the edge of Harry's hearing, almost inaudible, was a high-pitched piercing whine. A casual observer wouldn't even notice it. Someone suck in the room for hours would find it maddening.

There were no windows, nor any door. It was a room designed to give the impression of total isolation. To weaken the mind before questioning.

But not for nothing had Harry spent six years working as an auror. He knew the tricks of the trade well - he'd even invented a few of them. So he sat entirely still, blank faced and relaxed, and employed the methods of occlumency to maintain his calm.

Those who had known him as a teenager might have been surprised by his restraint, but it had been many years since Harry could call himself a teen. Though he hadn't grasped the true nature of occlumency until the end of the war, Harry had always found experience to be the best teacher. He was now the master of his own thoughts. No annoying sound would make him lose his cool.

Snape had said that detachment was the key to occlumency. Harry found stubbornness to be far more effective.

A white door drew itself into existence on the wall opposite Harry, through which a man stepped a moment later. He was wearing the uniform of an auror - black robes cut in a naval style - and three golden pips were pinned to his high collar.

"Hello, Ron," Harry said as the red-headed man took the seat opposite him. The years had treated him well. As tall as ever, he had now filled out with muscle, and, like Harry, he bore a golden tan that spoke of exotic travels. "Made detective, I see. Congratulations."

Ron snorted. "Six years, and that's all you have to say?" He paused to conjure up Harry's file, bulging with papers and parchments.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Should I be saying something else?" he said.

"The word 'sorry' would be a good start," replied Ron, his voice still light and friendly. Too friendly, given how they had parted - and how they had reunited.

Harry gave Ron an equally fake smile. "Well, I was all up for a heartfelt reunion… there would've been hugs and kisses all round. But then you arrested me."

"There is that," Ron said, tilting his head to one side as if weighing it up as an excuse. He frowned. "What's with the hat?"

Harry resisted the urge to adjust his white fedora. "Comes with the job," he said. "All that sun, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Ron said doubtfully, glancing down at Harry's clothes. He was wearing a beige blazer and waistcoat, with chinos to match. "You look like a bit of a twat."

A short burst of laughter escaped Harry. "You haven't changed a bit," he said with a shake of his head.

"You'd be surprised," said Ron, "but seriously, why the hell are you wearing that?"

"It's what everyone wears, out there," Harry said with a shrug, looking down at his clothes. "Besides, it goes well with the whole desert look."

"Ah yes," Ron said, flipping Harry's folder open. "That's right… the desert." His eyes glinted. "You do love copying Bill, don't you?"

Harry tapped his fingers on the table, not letting his irritation show. "That was six years ago," he said, "are you still living in the past?"

Ron ignored his comment. "So, you're a cursebreaker," he continued, still looking at the front page of Harry's file. An old photo of Harry was in the top corner, the rest of the page holding his basic information. "How's that working out for you?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Harry replied, gesturing at the file. "It looks like you've been keeping an unnaturally close eye on me… some might even say it's a form of harassment. What would the papers say?"

Ron's smile dropped in less than a second, all friendly cheer forgotten. "Let's cut the crap, Harry," he said. "I'm going to ask you once: where's the artifact?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," said Harry, leaning back in his seat. Ron had broken first. "As a cursebreaker, I deal with many artifacts."

Ron glowered, took a photo from the folder and slid it across the table. Harry looked at it, an expression of innocent curiosity on his face. It clearly showed Harry walking out of an underground passage in the desert, his shirt sleeves rolled up and a delicate piece of golden jewellery on his hand. A large ruby lay at its centre, over his palm, away from which the gold curled to secure it to his fingers and wrist.

"Oh, that artifact," said Harry, pushing the photo back to Ron. "It's not for sale, if the Ministry is looking to buy. Sentimental value, you know?"

"It's not for sale," Ron growled, "because it's not yours. The decree for the preservation of important historical artifacts-"

"-is British law," interrupted Harry with a finger raised. "The artifact is Egyptian. I recovered it in Egypt. I live in Egypt. The Ministry has no business with it… or me."

"The interests of the Ministry are not for you to dictate," said Ron. "The moment you brought the artifact to Britain it became our business. Do you even know what it is you've found?"

Harry smirked. "Oh, yes," he said. The artifact was incredibly powerful - he should have known the Ministry would try to take it. "Do you?"

Ron sighed. "I'm serious, Harry," he said. "It's more dangerous than you know. It needs to be protected by the Ministry, surely you understand that? You were one of us, once."

Harry allowed a silence to stretch out, giving the impression that he was seriously considering Ron's offer. At last he sighed and shook his head. "I think I was wrong," he said, and Ron's eyes lit up, thinking Harry had capitulated, "you have changed. Have you forgotten so soon? I am, in fact, quite familiar with the Ministry trying to relieve me of my property."

The silence returned.

"You're determined to remain uncooperative, then?" said Ron, glaring.

Harry gave him a tight smile. "Uncooperative," he said, "I like that. Well, if the auror office now considers a wizard's rights an inconvenience, then yes, that's what I am. The gauntlet is mine, and I will be holding on to it."

Ron's fists clenched, but he didn't say another word. He closed Harry's folder with great deliberation, stood up and walked out the door, which sealed itself behind him.

Harry snorted. "That went well," he muttered, drumming his fingers on the table. Ron's ability to hold a grudge had apparently only increased over the years.

Perhaps, Harry thought, he should have been more cooperative… of course, there was no way he was going to give them the gauntlet, but he could have been less combative. Not that it would have done much good… in the end, the Ministry wouldn't be happy until the gauntlet was theirs. The Elder Wand fiasco had taught him that much.

No, he'd done the right thing. A show of strength was necessary if he wanted to avoid a protracted legal battle… the Wizengamot would get involved the moment the Ministry thought they had a chance. Harry needed to dissuade them of that possibility.

The door appeared again, but this time it wasn't Ron who stepped through. It was Hermione.


End file.
